To my shining light
by Oakenshield
Summary: Erestor tries to pen his feelings for Glorfindel and in doing is reminded of his painful past. slash


Warning: Implied torture, angst, slash  
  
"Dear Glorfindel...." Erestor put his pen to the paper and halted. "No, too formal." He tapped his quill on the edge of the ink bottle and frowned at the blank sheet of paper. "My dearest Glorfindel? No. No, definitely not. My friend? My dearest friend?" He frowned and scratched his head. He was a scholar, could it be so impossible to address a letter?! It was not easy to write down feelings he had kept inside for centuries.   
  
"To my Shining Light," he wrote and smiled. That name was as old as their friendship. A nickname that held light amusement for Elrond and Glorfindel, and depth and love for Erestor.   
  
He glanced at the hand that held the quill. It had taken some time to learn to write with his left hand, after his... accident. The first two fingers on his right hand were rendered useless, too badly damaged to be set properly.   
  
The year had been 3428 of the Second Age and Erestor had been working as a spy and a messenger for Gil-galad. He had been asked to go to Rivendell with a message about the forming of the Last Alliance.   
  
As usual, he had gone alone, he was well trained in combat, he could take care of himself. As the High King's spy he was used to travelling through dangerous terrain alone. The road between Lindon and Imladris was long, but he felt there was no danger that he could not handle. How wrong could an Elf be...?   
  
"To my shining light," he put his pen back to the paper. "It has been some years since you earned that name, but it still holds true to you. You were like a spirit holding me from death, and you still are." Setting his pen down with a trembling hand, he reached for the glass of wine and took a sip. He would not repeat the mistakes of letters past, he would not whine about how Glorfindel had sometimes been the only thing that had kept him from death. Not this time. He would not be sentimental and obsessive. He was beyond that now. One could not wallow in self-pity for three millennia.  
  
It was painful to think back to those awful times. To think back to what had happened. But he had to. It was why he loved Glorfindel. It was how they had come to know each other. Light had come from his physical torment, but a torment of the heart had come also. Yet the pain was worth the joy of having such beauty as a friend.   
  
"I know it has been a joke amongst yourself, Elrond and I for centuries," he wrote, "how I mistook you for an ethereal being, but I think the time has come for me to tell you what a light you are to me."   
  
He had been just a day outside Imladris when the orcs had captured him. He had watched them kill his horse then proceed to eat it. They had tied him and made him sit in the corner while they ingested their supper then they had turned to him. He had known what they wanted, but they would get no noise from his lips.   
  
They were spies, just as he was, but spies of the Dark One, and used cruel and evil means to obtain their knowledge. The scars on his hands had been caused by their claws as he had struggled with them, the broken fingers had happened at the same time. The marks on his hands hardly showed these days, only small white marks, only to his eyes, but one thin line traversed up his arm to expand into a visible scratch mark, a testament to his torture that was kept constantly hidden under a long sleeve.  
  
He could remember few of the pack that had attacked him, but he would never be free of the memory of their leader - a huge, unsightly thing with thick limbs and malicious green eyes. He had crushed Erestor's left leg with no more effort than a man stamping on a leaf.   
  
The pain had made him lose consciousness, and he had woken to find himself naked and bound to the wall. He could not remember how long they questioned him, how long they whipped him, how many times they aggravated his injured leg, causing him to faint and vomit. But he was the advisor to the High King. He would die before they learned Gil-galad's secrets. They seemed to realise that rather early on, but wished for some fun with their prisoner.   
  
He still had no clue how long they held him for. It might have been hours, it could have been days. Darkness was all he had been able see with sweat and blood in his eyes. Whips had thrashed him, claws had scratched him, teeth had bitten him, fire had burned him, but it had been nothing but a blur of constant, unrelenting pain.   
  
They had left him alone with the big one when the worst blow came. The orcs had been fighting all day, their leader had been unhappy that he was getting no words from his prey. It had been small comfort.   
  
Erestor had watched with unfocused eyes as the big orc had played with a brutal looking blade. The creature had teased him for hours like that, twirling the weapon in his knobbly hands, smiling with mirth, never letting Erestor know what he was going to do.   
  
In the end Erestor's strength could hold out no longer and he succumbed to the comforting embrace of unconsciousness. His arms had lost feeling from being suspended above his head for so long, and it had been a brief joy to abandon himself to numbness, not to feel the burning rope biting his wrists, not to feel the throbbing pain in his shattered leg.   
  
"Blast it!" Erestor cursed, dabbing a bit of smudged ink with the sleeve of his robe. He could not afford to weep. He could not afford to spoil his letter.   
  
But the memories hurt so much. He could remember the pain of the last injury he had received as though it had happened only yesterday. The orcs had left him after that, tossing him into the icy waters of the Bruinen, thinking he would drown or die from his injuries. Neither happened.   
  
"I can still remember the night you found me, washed up on the riverbank," Erestor wrote. "I could feel my spirit leaving my body; Mandos was calling to me. I was freezing and broken when your arms lifted me. You might remember that I regained consciousness for a second and when I did all I could see was golden light and beauty. I thought I had died, I thought I was in the arms of a Vala."  
  
The image of golden radiance had remained with him throughout all his fitful dreams as he healed in the House of Elrond. He had not wanted to wake. He had wanted to die for his pain. He had wanted to dream forever, just to see his golden one. It had taken weeks for him to wake, but eventually a beautiful song had pulled him from his dreams and he had opened his eyes to see his angel singing softly to him. He was real, and his name was Glorfindel.   
  
"Your company kept me alive on days I could have died for my pain," he wrote. "For it, we have been friends long years, but my feelings run deeper than I have ever let you know. I know you love another, but I would have you know of my thoughts."   
  
It had been months later, when he had settled his healing body behind a desk to advise Elrond, that Erestor realised he had fallen in love with his new friend. It was about the same time that he realised he did not stand a chance in ever gaining his heart. Another held it.   
  
He had tried to turn his eyes away from the longing glances Glorfindel gave to Elrond. He waited long years to learn the truth of the situation. Gil-galad died but Glorfindel and Elrond still did not join. Elrond married, had children, lost his wife, but still nothing happened. Elrond did not love Glorfindel. Glorfindel loved in vain, and it angered Erestor as much as it hurt him. He could not have his golden one, but Glorfindel deserved to be loved. He would have given as much for Elrond to love Glorfindel as he would have for Glorfindel to love him. He knew how Glorfindel felt for Elrond; no one could understand that feeling of unrequited desire better than he could.  
  
"The truth is," he wrote quickly before his heart could sink. "I have loved you for more years than I can count. I know you do not feel the same for me, but I hope that maybe you would give me a chance. There have never been friends closer than you and I. Perhaps you can see a way for us to move our friendship to a higher level."   
  
He dropped his pen with a shaking hand and gulped down the last of his wine. No. The letter could not end like that. He had to have insurance. If he could not gain anything from this foolish note, he would not lose anything.   
  
"I understand if you do not want me," he wrote. "If that is so, let me know and we will continue to be friends. I mean not to offend you in any way, and hope you accept this graciously. Yours dearly, Erestor."   
  
He blew on the ink to dry it then folded the paper over and sealed it before he could change his mind. It was a good note, he thought. Better than the ones he had tried to write before. It was not overly emotional. It was short, and simple, and from the heart. It was nothing he could be embarrassed about if Glorfindel turned him down.   
  
He had sat in his room in the dark hours many nights, with a candle and a piece of paper and a pen, writing letter after letter to Glorfindel. All had ended up being destroyed. Every time he had read over his words he had been disgusted with himself. Glorfindel was a warrior, a hero, a beautiful being, loved by the children and respected by Elrond. While Erestor was an advisor, a failed spy, a bookworm, reticent and severe, thin and pale hiding in a black velvet robe.   
  
He quickly stepped away from the table and the letter. He could not think such thoughts now. Though every time they came back to him. Glorfindel was perfection. Such perfection deserved something better than he could offer. He was scarred, he was mutilated. He could not even look at his own body, let alone allow anyone else to see it. But.... was it so bad? Was the scar really so bad after all these years?   
  
Moving the candle onto the dresser, he stripped his robe and pulled his tunic over his head and lifted his eyes to the long mirror. From the front, he supposed he did not look too bad. He had little muscle, but neither was he all skin over bone. He was just not defined because he did not fight. He was tall and he stood straight, despite the injuries he had received. His hair was sleek, and his face was... all right. Not beautiful like Glorfindel or noble like Elrond. His eyes were brown. So brown they sometimes looked black and he thought it odd. Though Glorfindel had once described his eyes as 'unique pools of depth'. From the front he looked acceptable. But from the back...  
  
He turned slowly around and looked over his shoulder at his reflection and his stomach rolled. It was still there. As vivid as ever. A huge jagged scar, running from right shoulder to left hip. It had been inflicted by the big orc's blade, the last bit of sport. The last bit of spite. It had been red once. Now it was white. It shone on his skin like a vein of silver in marble, like a sliver of ice upon snow, like a gash on the landscape in the aftermath of an earthquake.   
  
With tears in his eyes he turned from the mirror and drew his robe back around himself. He could not look at those hideous wounds anymore; they held too many hideous memories. They were ugly. He had lived with the scars for over 3000 years and was still repulsed by them. How would anyone else be able to look at him and try to see beauty, something they could desire? Though he had been beautiful once...  
  
It was hopeless. He didn't know why he always tried to fool himself. Blowing out the candle, he grabbed the letter in an angry fist and cast it into the fire like all its predecessors. One day he may be brave enough to tell Glorfindel he loved him, but it would not happen tonight. Tonight he would sleep alone, and dream of what could be. As he did every night.  
  
~End~ 


End file.
